


Delicious Dark Appeal

by LyraNgalia



Category: Dresden Files - All Media Types, Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 02:00:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyraNgalia/pseuds/LyraNgalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>I may indulge my appetites, but I am not one to let pleasure get in the way of business.</i> - Lara Raith</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delicious Dark Appeal

“--And you will let the good Baron know that we appreciated his assistance? Perhaps with a little gift. Something the Valkyrie would not object to.” My assistant swallowed audibly at that, and I hid a smile behind a slow languid stretch. Justine had no cause to worry; I'd given my dear baby brother my word for her safety, and it would take much more than a badly thought through run-in with Baron Marcone to make me break my word.

Justine nodded, hiding her nervousness by shuffling the papers on her desk, and looked at me with dark doe eyes that concealed a clever mind. “I'll have the letter on your desk in an hour for a signature,” she murmured. “Along with Mr. Marcone's gift. Will there be anything else, Miss Raith?” 

Her words washed over me and I could feel a familiar stir beneath my skin, a honey-sweet whisper against my thoughts. I shook my head and allowed myself to smile as I rose from my seat. Justine's eyes tracked my movements without any hint of lust, just practiced and watchful. Good girl. “It can wait until morning,” I told her. “I'm going to take the night off.”

My assistant paused as she met my eyes for a brief second, then nodded, an almost undetectable tension thinning her lips. “Should I call for Amanda to meet you?” she asked, carefully keeping her eyes lowered. I felt my smile grow a little more. Justine had learned well at my little brother's feet; there weren't many in my employ who could have anticipated what I wanted.

I thought over her offer. My Hunger was an old friend by now, and I knew its moods as well as it knew mine. And tonight, it wanted something more than sweet, needy Amanda. It wanted to hunt, and I realized it had been far too long since I'd tasted someone new. I shook my head at Justine's words. “No, but have a car brought out front,” I answered. I could hear the demon's touch in my voice, its pleasure at my implicit promise a silken purr, as I picked up my coat. “I'll expect that letter as well as the Silverlight briefs on my desk first thing in the morning.” Justine bobbed her head in acknowledgment and headed for the door, her phone already out and dialing for the car I'd requested.

I may indulge my appetites, but I am not one to let pleasure get in the way of business.

*****

Zero was always an open option, but I dismissed it as quickly as the thought crossed my mind. It had been far too long since we'd hunted, and the more I reflected on the idea, the more it appealed. The driver took me to a part of Chicago I rarely frequented, pulling up in front of a bar. The parking lot was full of cars, the type every suburban family drove, and I fancied I could feel their alcohol soaked desires from out here. Desire for escape warring with fear. The Hunger stirred within me again and it came to my fingertips with the faintest caress of silk. The driver avoided looking at me in the mirror and coughed something about circling the block but I barely heard him as I slid out of the car. 

Inside, the bar was exactly what I had expected, full of men and women, some happy and content, most not. The only thing that surprised me was the lack of stale smoke lingering. Amazing how the threat of a slow, drawn out death scares the flock. I make my way to the bar, feeling eyes turn towards me, the subtle, unconscious movements of bodies shifting away to let me pass. I could feel their desires, just out of reach as I brushed past them, and if the Hunger had its way, we would ravish them all before full dark. But my demon and I, we understand each other. So it waited, content to know that satisfaction would come.

There were two open seats at the bar, and I slid into one, drawing the attention of the bartender for a glass of wine. White, of course. I've always enjoyed a glass of wine before supper.

The glass of inoffensive Chardonnay in my hand, I contemplated the bar. There was a couple talking in low tones in the back, eyes bright with the flush with alcohol. They were young, still brimming with the dreams of a white picket fence, two children, and a golden retriever puppy. Together, they could have been immensely satisfying, but I held back, looking for something more interesting. Seeing through my demon's eyes, most of the bar's customers lacked the spark of imagination, their mundane existences having smothered their dreams and desire for something more. They would submit far too easily.

I was almost about to return my contemplation to the young couple when something caught my attention, the faintest flicker of desire calling out to my old friend like a familiar song. I turn my attention towards the call and smiled. The man sat at the far end of the bar, staring at a glass of water with a brooding expression. He was attractive enough, for the fashion of the day, but the signs of age gnawed at him: faint lines around his eyes, the almost indiscernible beginning of sagging skin over still toned muscle. But it wasn't his physique that caught my attention, but the desires that he wore like an old, threadbare garment, just one fray away from being consigned forever to the graveyard of childhood dreams. All it would take was one encounter to sway him either way, to snuff out that flickering candle of brightly burning desire, or to fan it into a blaze.

He was perfect.

I smiled at the bartender, tapped my glass and gestured to the man at the end of the bar. The bartender eyed me, and I could all but read his thoughts in his glance. _Rich trophy wife, slumming it with these poor saps while her husband's away. Poor lucky bastard she's got her eye on._ I hid my amusement behind another sip of the wine. With prey in sight, the Chardonnay grew on me. The bartender said nothing, only nodded at my gesture and crossed the bar, sliding a beer over to my chosen buck. 

His head jerked back at the sudden offering, startled, and he swept the bar, suspicion and surprise warring for dominance in his eyes. His gaze landed on me and I smiled at him, waving at the empty seat next to me. He wavered, uncertain, as my demon, my old friend, peered out at him, its presence settling over me like a familiar second skin. I liked this moment the most, the one when my prey is a true buck, when his base animal instincts screamed at him warning of a predator but his body cried out for what it wanted and his mind was too stunned to distinguish between the two. 

The moment is an instant and an eternity, his fate balanced on the edge of a knife, and I smiled again, the Hunger calling, whispering honeyed promises to his flesh. His throat worked and I saw him try to form words. I said nothing, only waited. He came towards me, then, and in that instant I knew how the hunt would end. My Hunger did too, and curled bout me, slow and languid. We would be satisfied.

My buck sat down next to me, and we exchanged inconsequential small-talk. He introduced himself as Kevin and I let him call me Galatea. He laughed at that, and it pleased me. I so enjoyed the presence of intelligent men. He told me who he was, what he was: a professor of history at Northwestern, waiting on the results of his tenure application. My demon told me more: an idealist, working tirelessly towards his dreams, and now that he was on the verge of achieving them, fear of their fulfillment, of being trapped forever teaching students of never making that one discovery that would put him into the history books next to Howard Carter. A passion for the unknown that burned bright all through his youth and now was sputtering, having never found more fuel to consume than dreams that he feared were hollow all along. 

We spoke of archeology, of the mysteries of the Amazon and the Etruscans, and I brushed my hand against his. His eyes grew bright as my demon slid against his skin, sinking deep into his mind and soul, whispering to him of mystery and pleasure, of discovery of a world far beyond his wildest dreams. He all but trembled at the touch as my Hunger made his blood quicken with its passage even as its whispers inflamed his mind. Oh yes, my old friend knew me well. 

He rose with me when we'd finished our drinks, still speaking of ancient ruins and burning dreams while his body sang with desire. His fingertips brushed against mine as we wove our way out of the bar, my hips brushed against his under the excuse of too much wine. Once we had left the bar, I pressed him against the brick wall, the slow burning Hunger finally fanning itself into flame. His lips tasted of beer and memories of Troy as I parted them, and he molded himself against me as my demon and I found every one of his deepest, most secret desires.

Against the worn brick wall of a suburban Chicago bar, I took my hopeful little historian until his body failed him. When he shuddered, having given up all he could offer, and slumped to the ground, unconscious, we left him a gift: memories of dark-haired Cleopatra, porcelain skinned Helen, and grey-eyed Athena Parthanos. His body would shudder with ghostly pleasure at the thought, and his mind would find no rest.

Molten light slid beneath my skin and my old friend quieted, sated and satisfied, as I put my little historian's clothes to rights. To anyone who found him, he would seemed to have overindulged, and anything he said would be written off as the product of an academic's overenthusiastic, alcohol fueled dream. To my little buck, the experience would haunt him. And, if he were as strong and passionate as I suspect, he would search for his queen, his mystery, his goddess, until the end of his days.

And maybe, maybe I would let him find me. But maybe not.


End file.
